


The Strange Case of Shadet House

by glinda4thegood



Category: Lone Gunmen
Genre: Gen, Haunted Houses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-18
Updated: 2011-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-15 18:17:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood





	1. Chapter 1

Title: **The Strange Case of Shadet House**  
Author: Glinda  
Rating: R  
Timeline: Lone Gunmen series, post-Tango  
Disclaimers: Chris Carter & Co., where are ye now?

 

 _In the beginning man took branch and hide and fashioned the first roof to deflect the brunt of the harsher elements. Man invested nothing of himself in these rudimentary shelters; even then, location was everything._

Later, when man began to use stone and wood, mortar and brick to build with more permanence, humans (who had slightly more leisure time to consider such matters due to their domesticated animals and improved tool building abilities) began to think of these shelters as dwelling places. As they had increasingly begun to do with body and raiment, their living spaces reflected humanity's strange need to ornament and elaborate, to disguise and transform the mundane. Shelters became showcases for the esthetic tastes and acquired objects of their owners. For the more affluent the ability to transform environment into art became religion. A few with the artistic vision to use art to create environment could, perhaps, be viewed as renegade priests of this new religion.

Historically, renegades get mixed reviews.

It is a truth embedded in folk culture, but largely ignored by decorators, that you cannot make a silk purse from a sow's ear. You can make a lot of things from pigskin, many of them useful, even attractive. But silk -- never.

Shadet House had straddled the waterfall on Indigo Creek for only 56 years, but there remained not a single native of the area who could recall what the site had looked like before the house was built. With its unnatural geometry, flat reflective surfaces and earth-colored, stratified exterior, Shadet House gave the casual viewer an uneasy feeling that the structure had been sheared from the skeleton of the earth during some cosmic upheaval, and had since refused to let itself be weathered, or even affected, by nature's cycle of birth and death, upheaval and subsidence. It had existed an insignificant amount of time, less then a gadzillionth of a fruit fly's life measured on the cosmic clock; but a confluence of event, energy, will and the intense perversity of unchecked human desires had stuck Shadet House like a burr into the fabric of time and space with unforeseen, and unforeseeable, results.

The builders of Shadet House had been going for a silk purse. What they got . . .

 

 **LONE GUNMEN HEADQUARTERS, TUESDAY, 4 P.M.**

"It was the most appalling thing I've ever seen." Byers removed his suit jacket and threw it on the floor. He kicked it twice, then picked it up and threw it for distance. "The CEO of the company, the entire board of directors, every stockholder ... they should all be chained into the bowels of a stinking galley ship and forced to row around the world. Twice."

"Steady." Frohike plugged the digital camera into his computer and began the downloading process. It had been a challenge to get Byers out of the sweat shop without an incident. The supervisor who let them in on the QT had been walking a hairline between revulsion at what he was overseeing, and terror someone would realize he'd allowed witnesses to come and go.

"They were children, Frohike. There was one little girl -- she couldn't have been more than nine or ten." Byers' voice broke. He closed his eyes and stood with his head bowed for a moment. "I'm calling someone right now. The police, immigration, social services. Anyone."

"It was really bad?" Langly left his computer and came to stand over Frohike's shoulder. They watched the thumbnail images materialize. Frohike clicked on the fourth image, and heard Langly make a small noise. He'd gotten lucky with the camera, Frohike thought dispassionately.

She couldn't have been more than 14. There were already lines on her forehead, and her almond-shaped eyes squinted in the dim light at the piece of bright fabric she stitched. Her face was too thin, her posture hunched. It was a heartbreakingly good photo, but hadn't captured the vacant numbness Frohike saw when she raised her eyes afterwards.

"We need to talk about it first, Byers. If you call the wrong person, the kids will just disappear. Juan said some of the police look the other way," Frohike cautioned.

"I bought a suit from this company. I'm going to burn it." Byers threw up his hands. "I try to buy American. I try to stay away from American companies who have most of their goods manufactured elsewhere. Then I find out there are no guarantees. It costs more, but I'm looking for an area tailor." The door buzzed, interrupting Byers' rant. "Will you get that, Frohike? I have to go take off these pants." Byers loosened his belt as he left.

The knowledge that the subject of their photographic sneak attack, a squalid basement not twenty miles from their home, was only one of many such places that existed, made Frohike sick to his stomach. Further, realizing upstanding citizens, respected men and women in the business community, tacitly condoned what amounted to servitude . . . well, there was something incredibly wrong when a mega-business could pay pennies to a foreign worker, then turn around and sell the garment for dollars to a good American who made thousands or hundreds of thousands of dollars a year. Something, somewhere, was badly askew.

Yves stood in the hallway looking up at the camera. Frohike let her in. For once, she'd shown good timing.

"I'm glad you're here." Frohike locked the door behind her. "I've got a problem."

"Oh? Only one?" Yves looked around. "No Jimmy today?"

"He's got a list of errands a mile long. Probably be gone for hours." Frohike led the way back to his computer. "Take a look at these."

Yves sat down. She clicked through the pictures, one by one.

"Here?" she said. "In the city?"

"Yes. We've got some documentation. Two interviews with sources we can't name, and those photos," Frohike said. "It's enough for a story. We'd like to get those girls out of there. You got any ideas on who to call?"

"Being journalists, you'd think we'd have a couple of solid contacts with local law enforcement," Langly said. He'd returned to his computer. "But they all hate us, and our fibbie contacts have been useless lately. That leaves you, Yves."

"I'll help you," Yves said, slowly. She stared at Frohike's cover photo. "For free. They'll be out by this afternoon."

"Thank you." They hadn't seen her much since Miami. On the surface she seemed like the same old Yves, self-possessed and confident. Frohike looked into her eyes and saw only his own reflection. "How've you been?"

She arched her eyebrow. "Very well, thank you. Is Byers about?"

"Yeah. He went to change his pants," Langly said. "The label was chafing his ass."

"I may have some work for you. It's unorthodox, but lucrative." Yves turned away from the computer, sat back and crossed her legs. "Three nights and three days for $10,000."

"And we only have to kill who?" At the mention of the sum involved, Langly rolled his chair a couple of feet toward them.

She wasn't okay. Frohike stared at her and saw Yves shift her eyes past him, as if searching for Byers. Whatever was going on in her life she was internalizing. He hoped it wouldn't all come spilling out of her at an inopportune moment. For a second the look in her eyes reminded him of the way Mulder had looked, in the days before the Antarctica trip. Harried and haunted, and hiding the worst of the darkness from his friends. Frohike wondered if Yves had any friends she could talk to, or if clients and fellow hackers were her only source of human connection.

"Here's Byers. I can finish explaining." Yves turned back to Frohike's computer. "May I?"

"Since you asked this time -- go ahead." Frohike watched her work. Her fingers were as dextrous as Langly's on the keyboard.

"If you're familiar with area landmarks, you've heard of Shadet House." Yves gestured at the screen. "It's less than forty miles from here."

"Shah-day House?" Langly joined Frohike and Byers behind Yves. "Kinda looks like a Frank Lloyd Wright place. I've never heard of it."

"I have." Byers pointed at the largest photo. "Its foundation is actually on both sides of Indigo Creek. They put a glass floor in the living room so they could watch the river."

"Cool!" Langly reached around Yves to click on a thumbnail and bring up a larger picture. "It's kind of ugly on the outside, but look at that!"

"The master bedroom." Yves nodded. "The ceiling opens, either to glass or to air. A rotating bed is directly underneath. There's no other furniture in the room. See those wall panels?" She pointed at the mirrored surfaces surrounding the bed. "Doors lead to bathroom, boudoir and den."

"Looks like the deluxe honeymoon suite, all right," Frohike said. "What's the deal? Do they need to be wired for security?"

"You really haven't heard anything about the house?" Yves looked at each of their faces.

Frohike wondered what she was looking for, and why she hesitated. Getting to the fine print and disclaimer that appeared on the bottom of all offers for $10,000, he didn't doubt.

"Actually, I think I have." Byers frowned. "It was built in the mid-40s. The man who designed it wasn't an architect, he was a clothes designer who admired Gropius and Wright. He and his wife were killed a couple of years later in a freak accident."

"Simon and Simeone Shadet," Yves nodded. "The house was closed in 1952, and never reopened except for two photo shoots sanctioned by the estate. One in 1955, one in 1997. That's where the historical society got the pictures for the web site. There were no children. The house itself passed to Simon's brother, Franklin. He kept the house and grounds in immaculate condition, but allowed no one to stay on the premises after nightfall for nearly 50 years."

"Don't tell me." Langly shook his hair around his face like a frenetic Irish setter. "The place is haunted."

Yves looked at them and shrugged. "Franklin died last fall. Shadet House passed to his daughter, Giselle. She wants to turn the house into a swanky retreat. But there have been problems."

"Someone thinks it's haunted." Frohike looked at her closely. "Give it up, Yves."

"Giselle Shadet-Melton contacted a friend of mine who specializes in resolving haunted house cases."

Frohike's heartbeat jacked up a notch as she made a small, pouty grimace. "You know a spook _specialist_?"

Yves ignored him. "My friend and his associates were leaving the country on another job and asked me if I knew a subcontractor."

"You thought of us?" Byers looked puzzled. "You suspect a human agency is behind the problems, and want to debunk the haunting story? It's a simple investigation?"

"It can't be simple if they're willing to pay $10,000. Just what _do_ they expect for that, Yves? Hard evidence of human culpability? Physical custody of the perpetrator?" Frohike watched her closely. She was as hard to read as the sphinx.

"Those things would be nice. But the contract states that all you need to do is spend three consecutive nights in the house, monitor any supernatural activity that may occur during this time, and, to the best of your ability, attempt to determine why such activity is occurring."

Frohike saw her eyelid twitch, just a little. "This isn't a setup for some off-the-wall reality show, is it? Or you're maybe playing a little joke on us?"

"No setup. No joke." Yves shook her head. "The truth is no one has spent two entire nights in the house since 1952. Mrs. Shadet-Melton is scared of the house, but determined to make her new asset into an asset. She'd pay more than that to have it habitable. She paid a group of university people to approach the problem from the psychic angle two months ago."

"What happened?" Langly asked with ghoulish interest. "Did they get chopped up? Mutilated? Eaten?"

"There were four of them, a professor and three grad students. On the second night, 911 got a call that brought them out to Shadet House. One of the grad students and the professor were there. The grad student was nearly comatose. The professor had attempted to remove one of his own testicles with a pair of pruning scissors."

"Shit!" Frohike's fingers clenched. He consciously forced himself not to grab his crotch. "What was he thinking?"

"No one's sure. The professor has been under medical and psychiatric observation since the incident. He hasn't said a word since they brought him out," Yves said. "The grad student woke up later without any memory of the time he spent at the house."

"You said there were three students," Frohike prompted.

"They found the other two back in Washington," Yves said. "One was dancing at a topless club, one was arrested for making a disturbance outside a local television station. She insisted she was Martha Stewart, and they were waiting for her to shoot a better living segment."

"Hallucinogens?" Frohike asked. "Did the cops get blood?"

"They did. The samples came through clean," Yves said. "Two days after they'd been put into the hospital for observation, all three of the grad students were back to what their families considered normal, with limited memory of the time they spent at Shadet House, and none of the uncharacteristic things they did afterwards."

They looked at each other. Frohike saw Langly shake his head.

"I don't like it. This isn't our kinda party." Langly's hand rested casually across his fly.

"I can think of a lot of questions to ask," Byers said, "but I can't think of anything specific _we_ could do for Mrs. Shadet-Melton. You're implying she's interested in a more realistic approach to her dilemma."

"She hopes for a combination of the scientific and the fantastic," Yves said, avoiding Frohike's eyes and looking toward Langly. "My friend has rather specialized equipment for detecting some kinds of energy associated with supernatural phenomena."

"Equipment for detecting ghosts?" Frohike couldn't help himself, he laughed. "Come on, Yves."

"Actually, there is a small body of data that documents the presence of electrical and magnetic anomalies in classic haunted house settings," Byers said apologetically.

"I'll bet it's very small. Why did you think we'd go for this?" There was something else going on. Frohike could feel it in her.

"I'm going to Shadet House. I hoped you would accompany me. I have questions and reservations myself. I know Professor Galigo, and I'd like to find out what happened to him." Yves finally looked him straight in the eye as she spoke.

The truth at last, Frohike thought. "We need to hear everything, Yves. All the historical background, all the medical and official reports on the latest incident, everything and anything you might know or suspect about the house. Then we'll vote on it."

"Fair enough." Yves stood. "I'll e-mail you everything I have. You won't have much time. Giselle wants us in this weekend, starting Thursday night."

 

 **LGHQ, WEDNESDAY - 3 P.M.**

By the time Frohike emerged from the mysteries of puberty, he had come to the conclusion that life was a strange multiple choice test, where it didn't matter which of the four answers you picked; a, b, c or d . . . each one had some element of truth. It was only when you combined and analyzed all the answers that you realized there might be some greater, final truth to be suspected, but never directly revealed. He'd once spent an entire weekend reading _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ trilogy. He emerged from the marathon with a headache, an aversion to British humor that lasted well into the late 90s, and a grain of comfort. The idea that something important was happening, but no one would know anything about it until it bit them in the butt, was not unique to him.

It was easier to believe in aliens than it was to believe in ghosts. Long before Mulder introduced them to his world, Frohike had seen lights in the sky. He'd been a kid. He remembered headlines about marsh gas contradicting the evidence of his own eyes. You didn't have to be a rocket scientist to know that marsh gas doesn't form above the surface of Lake Michigan. Weather balloons, low flying planes, marsh gas or hoaxes; combine and analyze, wait a few years then throw Fox Mulder into the mix. _Hola_ , some greater truth emerges.

Nothing like that had ever happened to him in the supernatural arena.

Frohike was willing to keep an open mind on the subject. After all, Mulder and Scully had lived through experiences spanning the spectrum from extraterrestrial to paranormal. He'd read convincing reports on everything from possession to the appearance of solid apparitions. But Frohike had no personal, hands-on experience with the supernatural, and was pretty sure he hadn't been missing anything.

Theologically and philosophically, Frohike was of the opinion that death was just a step. Look at Esther Nairn. She was proof that consciousness, personality, and spirit could depart this mortal coil and continue. A thought that should have been comforting, but actually disturbed Frohike more than he'd ever expressed to Langly and Byers. The concept that the step could be botched, somehow, and result in the kinds of manifestations urban legends thrived on, was even more unsettling.

The mind and spirit were strange and distant country, where every computer ran a different operating system. Frohike knew this was the biggest argument against getting involved in a supernatural investigation. They were technicians, builders, users of tools. Add meta to physical, and they were left with few practical resources. The literature was consistent in indicating that many poltergeist episodes, recorded cold spots in buildings, and audio and visual phenomena might be attributed to something the living brought to the scene _with_ them. Something unquantifiable, intangible, and potentially dangerous.

Frohike read a portion of printed transcript of conversation between the hospitalized grad students and tried to make sense of events surrounding their aborted visit to Shadet House. The blood tests said no alcohol, no drugs. Frohike would have bet some kind of drug had been involved. The girl who'd been stripping -- she'd just walked into the bar, got up on stage and started taking it off. She was a looker, so no one in the audience had objected. One of the regular dancers, concerned the stranger was high and might need help, had called the cops.

"What do you think?" Byers sat at his desk, staring into space. Although they had gone over Yves' report together, Frohike was concentrating on the university group's experience, Byers had been assigned historical research on the family and house, and Langly was trying to ascertain what equipment they might need on this kind of field trip.

"I think that life is a mystery," Frohike said. He whistled to get Langly's attention. "Editorial meeting. Let's talk."

"Okay with me. I'm at a standstill." Langly pulled his chair toward Frohike and Byers. "Where are we with this?"

"I'm sitting here wondering why, when Langly jumped to the conclusion Shadet House was haunted, Yves didn't contradict him," Byers said. "There is a huge archive of information about Simon and Simeone Shadet, and a good deal about Shadet House. There is no mention of anything supernatural connected with the house. There is a benign area legend that the ground around Indigo Creek's waterfall was considered sacred by area natives . . ."

"I knew it. Built on an Indian burial ground," Langly said, hunching his shoulders. "Amityville stuff."

"Not at all," Byers said. "It was like a fairground. Used for trade, celebrations, and maybe rite-of-passage quest ritual stuff."

"Why all the hooey about no one sleeping in the place for 50 years, then?" Langly asked.

Byers shrugged. "The only odd occurrence I find is during the first week after the Shadets' burial. The original gardener and housekeeper, a French couple, quit their jobs without notice and left the country. Franklin Shadet hired new local caretakers, one Fleming Orthway and his wife Mathilda."

"Loser," Langly said. "What kind of name is Fleming?"

"Gee, I don't know, Ringo." Frohike shook his head. "Go on, Byers."

"Mr. Orthway had an accident during his first week on the job. Franklin then hired a couple named Brown, who lived several miles away in Johnstowne. They never stayed at the house. By the time Franklin died, the caretaker's job had passed to the Browns' son and daughter."

"And Mr. Orthway's accident?" Frohike prompted. "What happened?"

"I'm not sure," Byers said. "There was a reference to fishing him out of the creek. I don't think the accident was fatal, but I'd have to do more checking."

"Okay. This looks like an amazing house. Why didn't the brother sell it, or use it?" Frohike asked. "Did you find anything on Franklin Shadet?"

"Not as much as on his brother." Byers leaned back. "There are a couple of different stories about where the Shadet family came from. One says France, one says Italy. The parents lived in New York when Simon was born in 1910, and Franklin in 1912. Both parents worked in the garment trade. Simon must have learned the business from his father. When he was only 28 he opened his own design house, with the help of his new French bride, Simeone. Franklin worked for a while in the import business, then opened an interior design firm in New York. Both of them made piles of money."

"When you say design house, you mean like Chanel and Balenciaga?" Frohike realized Byers and Langly were staring at him. "I've been around longer then you guys, and unlike Langly, I read actual books. Shadet couldn't have been a household word."

"I read books," Langly protested. "You're turning into a quiffy little bastard, Frohike."

Byers' eyes sparkled with amusement. "I get a kick out of this part of the story. The Shadets deliberately avoided name recognition. They didn't design for the public, or your average upper-crustite. Their clients were specially selected, and rich. Very rich. With special needs."

"Special needs?" Frohike waited for the other shoe to drop.

"The fashions of the late 40s and early 50s were not suited to women with ample figures," Byers said. "The Shadets were geniuses at designing clothing that would not seem out of place at the ritziest gathering, for women who weren't built like figure-eights. They designed for men, too. Also some well-known circus performers with abnormal physical features. Their talents were, apparently, very much appreciated. The Shadets had amassed a healthy fortune by the time they undertook the building of Shadet House."

"How'd they die?" Langly leaned forward.

"Car crash," Byers said. "They were coming home from a late party, both had been drinking. Simon was driving. The speculation is he passed out behind the wheel, drove the car off the road down a gully into a heap of rocks. The car exploded and neither of them made it out."

"I shoulda waited for the movie," Langly sneered. "This is a bust, Byers."

"Maybe as a ghost story. But as a mystery, it works," Byers said. "You should read the 1955 review of Shadet House in _Modern Architecture._ They did the first photo shoot after the Shadets' deaths. Even the critics didn't know what to make of the place. Shadet may have admired Wright, but the house's design was the barest nod to Wright's own work."

"If this isn't important, don't try and tell me," Langly said. "It's a yawn, Byers. What did you come up with, Frohike?"

"A lot less." Frohike shook his head. "The grad student they found stripping says she can't remember why she decided to leave Shadet House. She remembers the drive back to D.C. with her friend, and finding herself outside the bar, but doesn't remember getting up on the runway. In the interview transcript she keeps asking how the crowd liked her."

"Our experience in Las Vegas with Susanne's gas comes to mind," Byers said. "We can't rule out a bio-engineered incident."

"And that worries me," Langly said, "because it isn't something we can record, measure or guard against."

"If we do this," Frohike said slowly, "and I do mean _if_ , I think it would be smart to keep a man in the van a couple of miles away, with 24/7 survelliance."

"You're even thinking about doing it?" Langly spun around in his chair twice. "The money sounds good now. How will you feel when you wake up in the hoosegow in a G-string, or to find the family jewels are no longer plural?"

How to argue against that point? Frohike saw Byers' face crease into deep thought mode. It seemed none of them were up for this adventure.

"We could pass," Frohike said, "but Yves is going in. Do we really want to let her go alone? Langly?"

"I say let her." Langly stood and jammed his hands into his pockets. "I can't see how us being there could be useful, and it's not like I'm concerned about her welfare."

Frohike thought of the kids in the workshop, and frowned. "Maybe. Byers?"

Byers sighed. "My first impulse is to agree with Langly, but there are some things we could do. You both know it. Video surveillance at the very least." He shrugged apologetically at Langly. "I'd go along."

"Whatever." Langly blew out his cheeks and made a face. "Change the masthead from _Lone Gunman_ to _Poltergeists R Us._ "

"You can man the van," Frohike said. He didn't want to take anyone in with them who had substantial misgivings, and Langly was such a big scairdy cat he'd probably spook the rest of them regardless of what they found at the house.

"No way. I'm not staying by myself and watch while something chows on your livers." Langly took his chair back to his computer and resumed working.

"That means you, Byers," Frohike said. He would rather leave Langly in the van, but --

"Let me second that. No way." Byers smiled. "Who will protect Langly while you guard Yves? We can put Jimmy in the van."

"Oh, right. Just stick the kitchen knife in my neck now," Langly muttered.

Langly had a point, Frohike thought. He shivered. Geese walking over a grave somewhere, no doubt. "Jimmy could do it. We have to emphasize how vital his job is, that's all. Words of one syllable. Easy to follow directions for calling 911. Tell him Yves' well-being will depend on him."

"That should do it." Byers laughed, happy as your average school nerd about to go on a field trip to the best museum in the area. "If we're leaving tomorrow morning, we should start packing now."

"Yeah. I can pack in about three minutes, but you should get started. I'll help Langly put the video stuff together."

The buzzer sounded as Byers left the work area.

"I'll get it." Frohike made his way to the door. The brown-uniformed man staring at the camera with an unhappy expression was a stranger. Frohike punched the intercom.

"Yes? Can we help you?"

"Got a delivery out here for Melvin Frohike. You wanna come sign for it, and take possession?"

"Sure." Frohike turned around and shouted. "Langly. Come here. I think that equipment Yves was talking about has arrived."

They followed the delivery man up into the alley. Frohike signed his name with one eye on the bright green metal trunk standing near the side of the building.

"You think we should open it out here?" Langly grabbed the corners of the trunk and shifted it slightly. "It's heavy."

"No." Frohike waited until the delivery truck pulled away. "We'll put it in the back of the van, and have Byers come up. Give me a hand."

It was heavy, but between the two of them not a difficult move.

"It's got some kind of ID marks." Langly pointed to the blurry red stencil on the latched side of the trunk. "Looks like the universal sign for _no!_ That's real encouraging."

Frohike bent, squinting, to read the small print. "Property of P. Venkman," he said. "Go get Byers. I want to open it up."


	2. Chapter 2

**SHADET HOUSE CASE: AUDIO JOURNAL OF MELVIN FROHIKE, TAPE 1**

It's Wednesday, 8 p.m.

Langly is working in the van, getting everything ready for Jimmy. Byers has suggested, after analyzing the house floor plan, that we set up two exterior cams, and three interior cams -- one in the living area, one in the bedroom, and one in the kitchen/utility area. This is more input than Jimmy is used to sorting through, but I'll take the time to make sure he gets how to work the program. We've got a nice, easy user interface with big colored symbols that will tell him what to do. A 10-year-old could run surveillance with our gear.

I called Yves and told her the vote fell in her favor. She said thanks, and she'll meet us at the house tomorrow, 8 a.m. at the front gate. Why do I get the feeling that she's not psyched to do this, either? The idea is not reassuring. Yves' is a risk-taker, but she's got built-in radar detection for dangerous situations. I hate that we've decided to go. I hate that the money sounds so good.

Note to future generations: if you want to be rich, steer clear of the news game.

Langly and I haven't thrown stuff into our duffels yet, but Byers has moved his neatly packed suitcases near the front door next to our growing equipment pile. He's sitting at his desk right now, poking at one of the pieces of -- I'm not sure what to call it -- that we unpacked from the green trunk. It looks like some kind of measuring device, a meter. There was a greasy, stained, crumbled sheet of notebook paper laying loose on top of everything, and Byers is trying to figure out what it means. The words are legible, that's not the problem. PKE valences, Classes 1-10 vapors and apparitions, ectoplasmic ionization rate? Give me a break. The damn thing looks like half of a karaoke machine with a circuit tester attached. Another contraption reminds me of an old radio mike, with spring-loaded arms. There are little lights on the arms, like the landing lights on an airplane strip. Byers is in love with this bit of junk. He's already scoped out the entire office with it, pointing it into every corner. He even found a spot in the darkroom where the arms give a little jump, near the sink. The damn sink still drips, even though I've replaced the faucet unit about once a year since we've lived here.

Pretty useful device, if it detects leaking sinks, I told him. Byers didn't even take time to acknowledge the sarcasm, just kept walking and pointing.

Anyway, on the to-do list: pack a few clothes, take out the garbage -- or we won't have an atmosphere left in the kitchen when we get back -- call Scully, and get everyone in bed at a decent hour so we can face whatever comes in the next few days with at least one good night's sleep.

Why do I keep putting off the call to Scully? I'd better do it now, before it gets too late. I hope she's getting lots of sleep these days, but I've seen the final stages of pregnancy go either way, constant zees or insomnia.

 **CLICK**

It's Wednesday, 9:30 p.m.

I swear, if I didn't love the man like a brother, I'd go after Pet Cemetery Mulder myself with a stake. He finally got his ass bounced out of the Bureau. I guess it's good to see him succeed at something he's been working on for years. At least now he's got the time to do Lamaze with Scully. She waited long enough to start, for god's sake.

Why are all the woman around us in such need? And why can't we do anything to help? I heard Scully's voice and wanted to get in the van and drive over to her place and . . . and I don't know what. She sounds older, more mature on the phone. She still laughs a little, but the fire is out. It isn't unhappiness I pick up on, exactly. She won't say much about herself, and the baby, and Mulder. She's had a few medical moments, but everything seems to be under control right now. So much for the transcendent joys of motherhood.

I called her because I wanted to hear her voice, and wish her well, but I also called to ask a few questions about an experience with a so-called haunted house she'd mentioned once or twice. Scully seemed reluctant to talk, but when I told her what we were going to do, she talked a lot. The whole story spilled out fast and furious. I think she must have been mulling over it since it happened. I can see why she would.

The bottom line in the Christmas ghost story, Scully says, is that it isn't only the good or evil men do that can live on after they're gone. Strong intent and the will to accomplish can also leave a mark that may affect those who come after. She called what Maurice and Lida left a "psychological maze." Although she wasn't forthcoming with precise details, I gathered she feels both she and Mulder were particularly susceptible to this kind of manipulation as a couple. "You go in wearing blinkers," Scully said to me, "but you think your peripheral vision is just fine. It makes it easier for whatever's doing the directing to point you down a certain path. I'm aware of the blinkers now, but I don't know how to remove them. And I'm not sure I'd have the courage to do it if I knew how."

Sweet lioness Scully, questioning her own courage. Lots of things she could question about her life choices, her inability to quit a dead-end job, her taste in men for instance. But her courage?

Our talk has confirmed my deepest misgivings about this project. If Shadet House is manifesting paranormal activity, the worse dangers we might face may be the hardest to guard against. I wish I could dismiss any such possibility, but it strikes me this attitude may be potentially more disastrous then maintaining a cautious, but open, mind.

 **CLICK**

 

 **SHADET HOUSE CASE: AUDIO JOURNAL OF MELVIN FROHIKE, TAPE 2**

It's Thursday, 8:00 a.m. We're sitting in the van at the front gate, waiting for Yves to show. To be more precise, Byers and Langly are sitting the van. I've stepped out for some air. Jimmy pulled up right behind us in his car -- there wasn't room for another body in the van, with all the baggage and equipment we've got. He's walking along the front of the grassy hill near the gate with me, cheerful as ever.

 _It's a berm. See? Artificial. They pushed a whole bunch of dirt and rock up to make it._

Thank you, Mr. Jimmy Wright. Where the hell did you learn that? Am I ever going to get a handle on what Jimmy knows, and what he doesn't?

I'm checking out the gate set into the berm, which is devoid of electronics, and has what looks like a keyhole for an old-fashion skeleton key. No one has ever tried real hard to keep people out, I guess. Even Jimmy could probably pick this lock. I push on the gate and it opens to a long, plain dirt driveway that disappears between thick flowering bushes and oak trees.

It's a beautiful piece of property, the kind of place you'd want to go for a Sunday picnic with a basket full of chicken, a couple of bottles of wine, a pretty lady, and a roomy blanket.

Here's Yves -- I can hear her car coming fast down the road, kicking gravel every which way. She's wearing leather and sunglasses. I have no problem with her fashion sense. If my ass looked that good in leather, I'd go for the complete ensemble, too. I'm going to prop the door open with a rock, give Jimmy his last minute instructions, load the equipment and baggage from the van into the two cars, then we'll follow Yves up to the house in Jimmy's car.

 **CLICK**

It's 8:45 a.m. Yves is talking to the caretakers. What a pair. Roger Brown bears a striking resemblance to Marty Feldman, and Reenee Brown looks like Mama Cass toward the middle of her career. Jack Sprat and his wife, except they're brother and sister, and according to Byers, never married. They were waiting near the front door when we drove up, standing side by side in American Gothic formation.

Up close the house is even stranger looking than it seemed in the web pictures. The bottom tier is cut fieldstone, the middle tier is a series of glass rectangles, but the reflective angle is weird, and depending on where you stand the windows look either clear or opaque like black lacquer. The third tier is more windows, horizontal instead of vertical, set into what looks like rusty sandstone. Bushes and flowers crowd right up against the foundation, and vines cover one end all the way to the top tier. When Byers first showed us the floor plan, he pointed out that the house was shaped like a truncated question mark, with a round pond on the other side of the river putting the finishing touch to the suggested form.

Byers is standing several feet away, just looking up at the house. Langly is taking video equipment out of Jimmy's trunk, muttering to himself. I'm turning off my com when I make these tapes, so I'll keep the segments short, especially after we get the place wired. I want _all_ of us in pretty much constant communication with the van.

I'm still struck by the beauty of the site. It's quiet. I can hear insects in the grass, the hum of honeybees in flowering shrubs, and a few birds chattering. After the city, this is a step back in time to a more gracious, simple existence.

 **CLICK**

Wow. Nothing outside prepared us for what the house is like inside.

Sorry. It's 9:30 a.m. The Browns bailed after talking to Yves. I can't say I feel that's a bad thing. If Roger Brown was hanging around, I'd keep expecting him to sidle up and inquire if the master needed any graves excavated.

We're standing in the living room, looking out toward the mouth of the waterfall, about 60 yards distant from the house. From here you can't really tell that it's a waterfall, the stream just disappears around some boulders. The middle of the floor really is glass. Fortunately, standing or walking on the glass is a choice. The area is only the size of a large rug, perhaps 10 by 10 feet.

I don't know if I can adequately describe the scale of the interior, and the way it _feels._ When we stepped in the front door, the thought came that we'd found an abandoned church. I can't explain the impression, because nothing here looks even faintly religious, or vaguely like a conventional church. You shut the front door behind you, turn around and your eyes seem to be yanked upward by the lines of the place, and everything is white and glass and sunlight. Then a blink of intense color drags your attention back to living level.

There are no walls between the front door and the living room, if that's what the designer would call it. The back wall is a continuous curve of white, and reaches a height of maybe 25 feet before it humps outward toward the windows into a half ceiling, then once again curves upward to meet the glass in the skylights over the half of the living room near the windows. It's like an enormous, upside-down infinity wall in some upscale photographer's studio.

The color comes from objects on the floor, arranged in groups around the glass inset over the river, and away from the windows, toward the wall. I thought the stuff was some kind of modern art at first, like statuary made of Murano glass. The colors are intense, but all in the blue-green spectrum. The first thing Langly did was sit down on one, as Byers automatically protested -- but the things appear to be chairs. I tried one. Even in direct sun it's strangely cool to the touch, and no more uncomfortable then your average waiting room chair. Since there is a total absence of anything else that looks like furniture, either the place has been emptied, or these things are the furniture.

 _Anyone says Beetlejuice even twice in a row, and I'm down that driveway._

I suppose I should prepare myself to listen to Langly's continued whining and horror trivia.

Yves has walked along the curve of the wall, and disappeared. The curvature must be more severe than appearance suggests. Let's see . . . I'm walking just under the line where the ceiling turns to skylight, looking backward and forward . . .Yes. Here's the place. I can see Yves ahead, staring upward at a cascade of glittering glass, and the guys behind, still examining the glass lounge chairs. I take a step, another, and I can't see the guys anymore.

Interesting.

There are mobiles here, hanging from the ceiling like an abstract representation of Indigo Creek's waterfall. Where'd I get that idea? I haven't actually seen the waterfall from below. The artist must be on the money, I guess. The colors are ice. Blue and green, frosted ghost colors that stab the eyeball with diamond-shard intensity. Yves looks like she's hypnotized.

We can gawk later. I thought Yves might take point on this expedition, but I can see if I don't do the organizing, nothing will get done properly. We need to recon the rest of the rooms, then get the place wired.

 **CLICK**

 

It's 1:00 p.m. We're in the kitchen, eating sandwiches, looking out the windows at the Japanese-style garden that surrounds the round pond at the tail of the house. Even from here we can see horizontal rake marks on the sand around neatly trimmed dwarf bushes.

We've got the cameras working, and Jimmy verified reception is 100 percent. He was bitching in my ear a minute ago that we're eating roast beef and cheddar 'wiches, and he's stuck with baloney. Hey -- I told him he was responsible for packing his own chow.

Acting on Mrs. S&M's instructions, the Browns have left us groceries that should last well into next week. Considering the sheer volume of food, I figure they didn't know what we'd like to eat.

Note to self: take leftovers with us.

Most of the food is either canned or fresh. No nuke-box in this kitchen. Although it was designed in a simpler time, the modernity of the place strikes me. It's spacious, open, the gas range has a built-in grill top, it's really cook friendly. The color scheme is still running to ice green, but copper-bottomed pans and bright peach-color enameled mouldings give the whole area a happier, more intimate feeling. I can imagine doing some power cooking in this place. The fridge looks like it's original to the house, kind of cramped, but adequate and still frosty. It's stocked full of deli cartons, juice boxes, milk and beer. That was thoughtful.

Byers has only eaten half of his sandwich. He's standing by the stove, waving his toy mike around. As soon as he turned it on, the little arms twitched. It doesn't matter where he points it, the arms stay steady. Which tells us squat, but he seems delighted with the response. I can't figure it out, since the sink here isn't dripping.

Yves hasn't eaten anything. She finally took a juice box that Langly kept nagging her to drink. She looks unhappy, like she's wondering why we're wasting time here. Once again, it's up to me to get our butts in gear.

 **CLICK**

For the life of me, I can't figure out how anyone could have lived in this place, as is.

It's 5:30 p.m. We've been wandering around now for several hours, always together. I've insisted on that, and so far haven't had any little lambies wandering from the fold.

We knew going in that there was only one bedroom. The idea was strange, but the reality of the size of the place, and no provision for children, or guests -- well it only seemed odder when we climbed the spiral staircase to the upper level. The staircase, by the way, is very cool. Each step is a slab of art-glass, and looks like someone chunked off glacier bits into building blocks.

At the top of the stairwell, there is a small half-circle shaped foyer with doors to the left, straight-ahead, and to the right. As the floor plan indicated, the left-hand door leads to a short hallway and a door which opens into a kind of den, again with minimal furniture. Two long, horizontal windows look out over the countryside, and below you can see the skylights over the living room. There's a white and gilt roll-top desk with a spindly-looking chair, and built-in deacon's bench seats under the windows, done in what looks like mahogany. A drafting table and empty bookcase are the only other things in the room, except for the matted and framed posters on the walls.

Byers pointed out immediately that they were original fashion designs, signed S&S. He was still waving his mike around at this point. The thing had gone to full erection on the stairway, and was blinking like crazy while we checked out the den.

A second door, further along the same wall as the entry door, leads to the master bathroom -- or the throne room, as Langly dubbed it during a moment of group worship as we got our first look at the place. White marble everywhere, veined with the lightest pink, and a bathtub big enough to do laps in situated under a stained-glass skylight. Mirrors cover every part of the wall that they'd missed with the marble. Anything you did in that bathroom, two or three of you would be looking back on, amazed.

The door opposite the den entrance opens to the bedroom.

It's a big room, strangely lacking the windows that flood every other room in the house with light. There's a circular dome of cool green glass in the ceiling over the only object in the room -- the bed. Does this register with everyone else? The only thing in the whole, huge, empty room is the bed.

Langly made a beeline for the bed, plopped down on the white bedspread, and sat there looking up at the ceiling. He asked Yves if she knew how the skylight might operate, and next thing I know Yves is groping around near the headboard, and the ceiling is peeling back to let sunshine bounce off the mirrored walls. It was blinding.

 _I don't understand. It was working before. It nearly jumped out of my hand, then nothing._

 **CLICK**

Yves and I have been in to look at the boudoir.

I made Yves shut the skylight, and told Langly to get his dusty ass off the bed. Byers' toy mike is apparently dead now, so he's gone downstairs -- accompanied by Langly -- for the other gizmo.

There's a little more furniture in the boudoir than there is in the den. A large vanity and stool, an actual fainting couch upholstered in -- guess what color -- with a marble-topped end table, and deacon's benches against the wall under the windows make this the most furnished room in the house. The small bathroom just off the boudoir, constructed of more pink-veined marble and mirrors, includes a roomy shower-bathtub combination.

Yves hasn't been talking much, but as we walk back to the bedroom she comments on how sterile the place feels. That's just what I've been thinking. Standing here in the main doorway, looking out into the foyer as I wait for Byers and Langly to return, I wonder again how anyone could have lived here and not left more of themselves. The posters in the den are the only personal touch I've seen so far. Surely they must have had more in the bedroom during their lifetimes. Dressers? Chairs? Even _I_ feel there's something vaguely indecent about an empty, mirrored bedroom that only contains a rotating bed.

Yves is sitting on the bed, with her legs crossed, hands on her knee, her eyes closed. She looks like she's meditating.

I can hear the guys' voices floating up the stair well. We'll have to go back down and bring up the sleeping bags next. The floor in here is covered with a deep pile carpet that just misses being white because the top of the nap has a silver-blue cast. The pad seems to be in good shape, so it won't be too bad camping on the floor.

 **CLICK**

It's 10:00 p.m. We're all gathered in the bedroom, and we've made it through the first day.

Jimmy told me a few minutes ago that this is the last time he does the boring job. The cameras have dutifully recorded all the nonevents of the day, and he was yawning when I told him we were getting settled for the night. I didn't say I'd trade this plushy carpeted floor for the hard metal of the van in a second, but it's what I was thinking.

Langly has his laptop booted up. He's sitting cross-legged on the bed, working at something. Yves is sitting next to him, watching over his shoulder. I can't explain it, but that bed bugs the hell out of me. I have no desire to sit on it -- or even touch it. Byers is on the floor near his sleeping bag, still playing with the karaoke machine.

 _The needle's either stuck, or registering the presence of something with a PKE rating between 9 and 10. I wish I had a clue about what PKE means._

 _Surely that's obvious. It's registering psychokinetic energy._

 _We don't all have your intuition, Stardust. Byers is way out of his depth here._

 _And you and Frohike feel right at home?_

She's laughing, maybe at the bizarro nickname Langly came up with, and for some reason it's weirding me out. I've never seen Yves loose enough to actually laugh out loud from deep in her belly. She reaches over and pushes Langly's hair behind his ears, so he can see his screen better, I guess. He must be absorbed in his work, because he doesn't bat her hand away and call her something more creative than _Stardust._

I'm crawling into my own sleeping bag now. I should have brought another pillow. Oh well. I took off my boots, socks and vest, but I'm sleeping fully dressed in case of midnight alarums and excursions.

We spent the late afternoon walking through the gardens and grounds on both sides of the stream. There's a small footbridge just below the kitchen end, so you can cross from bank to bank without going through the house. I can understand why Mrs. S&M would want to take possession of this place, if only for the grounds. I stood and looked down at the pond, at the floating lilies breaking the reflection of the house with the colors and texture of a Monet, took a deep lung full of the honey sweet air, and peace seemed to settle deep in my bones.

I cooked dinner on that wonderful range. There were eggs in the fridge, glorious double-yolked, day old eggs with creamy brown shells, and I couldn't resist. I hope I get a chance to thank whichever of the Browns did the shopping. There was olive oil, garlic cloves and shallots, and green, red _and_ yellow peppers. I diced and chopped, and made omelets topped with the same sharp cheddar we'd used on the sandwiches at lunch. Yves found a couple of bottles of Gamay Rose in the cupboard, and real crystal glasses. While I cooked, Langly set the table, complete with linen napkins.

We ate without talking much, then just sat and sipped wine and watched the sun throw long shadows across the Zen garden out back.

Yves started talking about the Professor. She worked for him one summer, as a part-time job. I wonder if she was a student at an area university. There are still things _I_ don't know about Yves. Galigo is apparently the one who introduced Yves to the Venkman character who sent us the spirit-detecting trash. I think it embarrassed her to admit that she was friends with someone whose business is chasing after ghosts. I could have pointed out that some of our friends have much stranger pursuits.

After the wine was gone, Byers helped me clean up while Yves and Langly went to carry the last of the luggage up to the bedroom. Byers seems to be having a hard time concentrating on anything other than the blasted ghost-meters. He kept sitting down and fiddling with the mike, trying to get it working again. I had to speak sharply to him a couple of times before we got the dishes done and put away. He just looked at me as if surprised, shrugged and got back into the job. Byers is, without question, the one of us farthest gone down Workaholic Avenue. He needs to realize that work is only one fraction of a rounded life-style. The kid needs more hobbies.

I'm not going to bug him about it now, though. We _are_ here on a job, even if it feels a little like a B &B weekend.

It was getting dusky in the living room when we finally left the kitchen. Yves and Langly came downstairs as Byers and I were looking for light switches. Yves found them without difficulty, which is odd since they're cleverly hidden, recessed touch panels located near the main entrance. The impression of the house being more museum than home is even greater at night. There are lights under each of the glass chairs, spotted on the mobiles, and focused in soft, overlapping oval pools high up near the skylights. Most of the area near the windows and back against the wall is draped in shadow. The glass floor contributes a substantial part of the illumination to the portion of the room nearest the front door. There are lights underneath the glass, providing a clear view of the river below.

Did the Shadets entertain in there? Did they give their guests food and drink? And if so, where did they sit the glasses and plates -- and themselves? I have this bizarre mental image of people standing between the chairs, living statues draped like fashion models, staring out the windows, or into the river. None of them talk, none of them look at each other. They move like figures in a clockwork dance, always just missing any kind of connection . . .

I'm definitely weirded out, but if this is as bad as it gets, I can take it. I'm not sure what we'll do tomorrow. I think I'd like to make a picnic lunch, and spend the day outside by the river.

Oh -- I don't think I've mentioned it yet. Yves told us this afternoon what happened to the first caretaker. We were down by the river, and I said something about it being obvious no one could drown by accident around here. The water is fast, but very shallow. Yves had it from Mrs. S&M that the two fishermen who hauled Mr. Orthway out of the creek reported he was stark naked, wearing what turned out to be his wife's (copiously decorated with rubber chrysanthemums) bathing cap, and claimed to be Esther Williams. The incident turned into a police matter when the men tried to return Mr. Orthway to his wife's care, and found she had gone missing. Mathilda Orthway was located a week later, in D.C., where she had been singing nightly at a dinner club.

I feel like I should see a pattern, but I'm yawning now. It's all the fresh country air, no doubt. Byers has crawled into his sleeping bag and pulled it over his head. Langly and Yves are still sitting on the bed. I'm going to use the throne room, caution them one more time to stay put for the night, then hit the hay.

 **CLICK**


	3. Chapter 3

**SHADET HOUSE CASE: AUDIO JOURNAL OF MELVIN FROHIKE, TAPE 3**

Goddammit. It's Friday, 9:30 a.m., and I'm alone in the bedroom.

I never sleep eleven hours at a stretch. I panicked right away, but Jimmy told me everything is fine, they're all downstairs in the kitchen. Byers wanted to get me up, Jimmy said, but Langly and Yves told him to let me sleep.

Who died and made them leaders of this expedition? I'm getting dressed and going to lay down the law.

That is, I'd get dressed if I could find my duffel. There's a huge mound of clothing spread all over the floor between my sleeping bag and Byers'. His suitcases are turned inside out, and so, apparently, are Langly's and my duffel bags. At the other extreme are Yves' and Langly's sleeping bags, which are still rolled up neatly against the wall. It gives me a shudder to think they might have crashed on that bed.

Langly must have done this. I'm going to kick his ass.

 **CLICK**

 

I'm about five minutes away from ordering everyone out of the house.

It's ... 10:30 a.m.

Friday.

I'm sitting out by the lily pond, getting a little fresh air and pondering what I've just seen around the breakfast table. I don't know what bothers me the most, the fact that Byers was wearing one of Langly's tees and a pair of jeans, or the fact that his hair is sticking up in spikes (gelled?), and he's eating corn flakes moistened with beer. Honest. The long-neck was still sitting beside him, and I could see foam on the flakes.

Byers wasn't the only one who reached for the wrong suitcase this morning. Yves has discarded her leather. Both she and Langly looked neat as identical pins. Both have their hair tied back in tails, both are wearing crisp white shirts and brown trousers. Trousers, for god's sake, there were front-pleats and everything. Langly doesn't roll out of bed, brush his hair and tie it back. I'm thinking whatever happens in this place has happened overnight.

God, what am I wearing ... jeans, shirt, vest, normal, normal ... am I the only one of us who's maintaining?

Jimmy says everyone sounds fine over the com, just like usual, although Byers does seem more taciturn then normal. Is Jimmy being affected, too? I would have bet he didn't know the word _taciturn._

I'd better get back inside and call for a pow wow.

 **CLICK**

 

The Chicken Frohike I made for lunch (lightly breaded filets of breast wrapped around cheese and fresh asparagus tips) turned out perfectly, as did the five-fruit salad. I wonder where the Browns found those huge, perfectly ripe Kiwi fruit? I wish I had the time and ingredients to make a trifle, or maybe a chocolate cheesecake. A chocolate cheesecake might improve Byers' mood.

Langly and Yves have gone to sit in the living room and watch the river. Byers has pushed the dishes to one side and is disassembling the microphone gadget. He's already killed a six-pack, and has another two long-necks standing by. I can't see that a little relaxing will hurt him, at least he's absorbed in his work and isn't stripping down and heading for the creek.

Oh, yeah. It's 2:00 p.m. We had our talk, and I decided I was being more paranoid than necessary. Yves explained that she found the clothes they are wearing up in the bedroom. She'll show me where after I clean up the lunch things. I'm still not clear on why they decided to change their regular duds for dead people's clothing, but she did say that leather sticks to glass something awful.

Byers has been surly and unhelpful all morning. He claims to be tired and bored, stated he was over 18, no longer needed a baby-sitter, and hadn't been hired as the live-in maid so I could do the damn dishes myself.

Fine with me, this kitchen is a pleasure to clean. I'm going to finish in here, then tell Jimmy to keep an ear on them and go for a walk under the oak trees. When we explored yesterday I kept smelling mint and lemon balm. I'll bet there's an herb garden out there somewhere. Fresh salad greens would be just the thing for dinner tonight.

 **CLICK**

I found the herb garden. It's a well-established patch that must have been tended since the 50s. I wonder how much Mrs. S&M wants for this place?

There was leaf lettuce, pepper grass and salad burnet, lemon balm, oregano, thyme, sage, rosemary, white and brown radishes, fennel . . . you name it, it's planted back by a tiny stone cottage hidden away from sight of the house. I peered in the dusty windows, and tried the doorknob. It was locked. I think it must be the place the original caretakers lived. There's certainly nowhere in Shadet House for staff to sleep.

Foolishly I left the house without anything to carry my bounty back in. I had to use my vest as an impromptu sack. I don't know where the afternoon went. It's 5:30 p.m. as I speak. I'm trying to decide what to make for supper. The steak they've left us really isn't top quality. I suppose if I slice it very thin, and saute it with some of the herbs and lots of black pepper, it will do. There's a package of wild rice in the cupboard. I can throw in mushrooms and extra veg and make a casserole. If I'd had my wits about me, I would have started dough rising this afternoon. Oh well, we're only camping, after all.

Byers left empty beer bottles all over the place, and the guts of his gizmos litter the floor around the kitchen table. I've been talking to Jimmy off and on all afternoon. He heard snoring from Byers' com for a while. All that beer must have gotten to him. Yves and Langly apparently spent their time discussing fashion history. I'll go check on them after I put the casserole together.

 **CLICK**

It's Friday, 8:00 p.m.

We left Byers downstairs, laying on his stomach in the middle of the glass floor, watching the river. He's got the last six-pack within arm's reach, and has lost Langly's tee and the jeans. He's wearing a pair of beat-up old jeans shorts that are ripped nearly to the crotch, and nothing else. I worried about him getting chilled, but the glass in the floor seems warm to the touch. Maybe the lights underneath heat it. Did I mention that he's reciting Hamlet? He really does have the most amazing memory.

Anyway, he seems happy and occupied.

 _Hurry up, Frohike. You said you wanted to see where we found the clothing._

Did I say there was nothing personal left of the Shadets? Boy, was I wrong.

We saw it in the floor plans, but it never registered. Yves found another of those touch panels between the mirrored walls in the bedroom. One of the mirrors pops open, just like the door to a secret passageway, and leads to a mammoth closet. You can see it if you look at the blueprints, a long stretch of space directly behind, and on both sides of the stairwell, stretching from the den all the way to the boudoir's bathroom. There are three hidden doors, one in each of the main rooms. It's full of the most amazing clothing, shoes, jewelry . . . Does Mrs. S&M know this is all here? I can't believe she does.

There are two portraits hanging inside, between more mirrors. I'm sure I'm looking at Simon and Simeone Shadet. They're seated, one facing left, one facing right, so it seems they're smiling at each other across the frames.

They must have been a striking couple. Simon has a pronounced, square jaw, olive skin, and dark eyes that the artist has recorded with fierce, direct beauty. His black hair is slicked back, and his shirt is scarlet. I look at him and think of the tango, or perhaps bulls and capes is more appropriate to the aggression the artist has revealed in the thrust of his shoulders and the curve of his lips.

Simeone is his opposite. Her face is oval, her hair twining around her brow and cheeks in honey-colored coils. Her fine blue eyes are marked by darker brows, and an expression of serenity. In the portrait her lovely white shoulders are bare, and she's holding a coruscating sheet of ruby red fabric bunched in one hand, just covering her breasts. She seems to be leaning toward Simon.

I don't blame Yves and Langly for their interest in this room. The clothing is awesome, designer-quality period stuff. There's a purple smoking jacket I would kill for. I almost tried it on, but didn't feel right about it. Yves and Langly have no such hesitation. They're sitting on the floor in front of a shoe closet, trying on shoes and giggling. I swear! Both of them, giggling.

I'm going to go back outside near the lily pond, think this over and talk to Jimmy. It might be smart to have him drive up and take Yves and Langly out of here. Byers and I can finish this gig.

 **CLICK**

I think I could sleep outside tonight.

I'm laying on my back in the grass, and it's like a planetarium show. The sky never looks like this in the city, like someone tripped and spilled a shitload of glitter on a black satin backdrop.

I can hear frogs in the pond, and earlier there were fireflies near the river. An owl called from somewhere nearby, just minutes ago. It was a solitary, but companionable sound that seemed to vibrate against something familiar in my soul. The peace of this place goes beyond words.

The house is a black, sharp silhouette from this angle, outlined by the interior lights. There's a brighter glow coming from the side facing the waterfall. Byers must have all the lights on in the living area. He's been talking to Jimmy over the com, discussing old movies with Gary Cooper in them, and books Jimmy's never heard of, and something about Joe Namath and a pantyhose commercial. This all sounds like Byers, when he's abnormally relaxed and conversational. It's been a long time since we all sat down and just shot the breeze. A couple of winters back, before Mulder's alien scare hit us so hard, we'd spend hours playing chess upstairs, and talking until late. Byers has an interesting mind. If you can cut through the anal retentive crapola he's sharp and funny and sensitive.

We've all been blunted by the last couple of years, idling along, going through the motions, trying to tread water, but not trying to make it to shore. Why do I think this now? Doesn't the work we do together give us enough direction and purpose? I know it isn't a traditional life-style, but then, what is? Even in the heartland things have changed. Nine-to-five, two cars in the garage, a TV or computer monitor in every room of the house, kids and dogs and malls . . . it's starting to sound as dated as the 50s. I could make a case for us being a nuclear family. I could.

Jimmy told me that Yves and Langly have definitely gotten strange, but he hasn't heard anything to terrify him, although he did comment that Langly knows far more about the draping properties of fabric then he would have guessed. He said I seem fine, too.

I feel fine. I feel wonderful. The ground is a little cold against the back of my head. I wish I'd brought that old black leather beret I used to have in Florida. I remember wearing it on the beach on nights like this one, only far hotter, looking up along the full arcs of Nikita's breasts, along her throat and jaw, upward at the stars framing her wind-tousled hair. Ma petite senorita. I can almost hear her laugh and sigh _habanero grande._ If I'd stayed, would I have seven kids by now (probably all daughters)? Would I own a little bistro by the ocean where my daughters could wait on tables and flash their long brown legs (so much like their mothers' legs) at the tourista snowbirds and conesuckers?

Tomorrow, for breakfast, I can use the leftover rice casserole to make a fritatta with those lovely eggs. I wonder if the Browns left any fresh jalapenos in the vegetable drawer?

I bet if all those glass monstrosities were taken out of the living room you could put together a first-class dining room. Maybe I should suggest to Mrs. S&M that she turn the place into a restaurant. In this setting she could serve an eclectic mix of ethnic country foods, and probably do darn good business.

 **CLICK**

It's Saturday, 2 a.m., and I don't know if I'm awake or dreaming. I'm trying to rub my eyes into focus. The moon is nearly full, so there's lots of light, but the garden around me looks stark and unreal in shades of black and silver.

The com woke me. Jimmy was repeatedly calling my name. I'm damp and stiff, and feel sluggish, like I've been tranquilized. When he finally got my attention, Jimmy told me he got up to take a leak and Yves and Langly were still awake and chattering, in French and English. He doesn't like the tone of the conversation, and says what they're doing is just plain wrong. Jimmy didn't go into detail, but he said I should get into the house and stop them, **NOW** , or he will come up and do it.

I've got a couple of spare tapes in the kitchen, so I'm going to put a new one in and let it run. I'm not turning off the com again, either. Jimmy is nearly frantic. He does say that Byers seems to be sleeping, so that's one less worry right now. What was I thinking, leaving them alone?

 **CLICK**

 **SHADET HOUSE CASE: AUDIO JOURNAL OF MELVIN FROHIKE, TAPE 3**

Saturday, 2:10 a.m. I'm in the kitchen. There weren't any lights on when I got here. The faint sound of music is coming from somewhere.

I'm heading for the living room. There's Byers, curled up on the glass floor. I'm not sure if I should try and wake him.

. . . nope. Leave sleeping Byers the hell alone, Jimmy says, and get my ass upstairs. I'm starting to seriously wonder about Jimmy, he sounds hysterical. Yeah -- I said that about _you_ buddy. Calm down.

The music is definitely coming from the bedroom. Mel Torme? Perry Como? Someone is singing "I've Got You Under My Skin." I don't mind Porter, myself, but it's difficult to believe Langly's listening to it without making a fuss. The door is open. I'm going in.

Oh shit. Jimmy, don't go nuts, you can obviously see them on the monitor. Why didn't you warn me, you doof?

 _You should knock before entering someone's bedroom, ma ami. Stardust, we have a visitor._

Langly? Give me strength.

I'm reluctant to describe what I'm looking at. The equipment in the van is recording the scene, although I doubt the tape will last long when Langly and Yves are once again in their right minds. Because I have to believe they aren't in them just at this moment.

They've found an old record player. It must have been in the closet with the clothing. Langly is waltzing around the bedroom. He is surprisingly graceful. Yves is reclining on the bed. Yeah, Jimmy, I can see Langly's wearing an evening gown. A nice one, white with emerald green piping, lots of tasteful drapery going on, and he's dripping diamonds . . . chandelier earrings, a really ostentatious necklace, matching cuff bracelets and several rings. The heels match the piping on the dress. Somehow he got his feet crammed into them. I'm dying to know who did his hair -- him or Yves? It's in a French braid, with little curls dangling around his face. His glasses have disappeared, and his face looks less angular, his dimples more . . .

Shit. Can't stop laughing . . . I'm sorry . . . he looks really . . . pretty . . .

 _We didn't call for you, but since you're up, you might put together a fruit and cheese tray, and bring us some wine. Moonlight is thirsty._

Yves has mistaken me for the butler, I think. She's wearing a man's undershirt and suspenders (no bra, and that's a real nice look for her, all nippled up) along with black tuxedo trousers. Her hair is in a single braid, gleaming with hair goo. She's smiling and patting the bed next to her.

Langly is going to the bed . . .

I can see what he did, Jimmy. I'm going to need hearing aids now, thank you very much. Yves didn't appear to mind his tongue in her ear. In fact she's got her hand up his dress . . .

I'm warning you. I'll turn the com off for good if you do that again.

 _Francois, we'd like wine now, and perhaps some of your finger sandwiches. Tomorrow you must have someone out here to fix the bed. Moonlight is distressed that it no longer rotates._

There _are_ cucumbers in the crisper. And tinned crab in the cupboard. I suppose I could . . .

Jimmy -- keep yelling at me, please. I just found myself halfway down the stairs, heading back to the kitchen. I think you'd better bring the van up here, but for God's sake, don't come into the house. Just keep yelling at me.

I'm going to try and wake Byers, and get him outside.

 **CLICK**

It's Saturday, 2:40 a.m.

I got Byers out the of house. I'm pretty sure he's thoroughly drunk, I mostly had to carry him. He swore a lot once his bare feet hit the wet grass. I didn't know the boy had it in him. There's proof of that remarkable memory again. I think I used one of those phrases back in 1992 after Clinton was elected the first time.

Jimmy manhandled Byers into his own sleeping bag, told him to shut up and stay put. Yves and Langly have left the bedroom, and Jimmy can't tell if they're in the bathroom, closet or den. Their coms are no longer transmitting.

I'm standing at the bottom of the stairs now, trying to focus on a clear objective. I'm Melvin Frohike, columnist, investigative journalist, photographer, hacker, man of distinction. I ain't nobody's butler or chef, and I'm going to get Yves and Langly out of this house _now._

The record is playing "Mood Indigo," and there's no one in the bedroom. They've opened the dome above the bed, and I can see stars overhead wink down at me. The bathroom door is open. Water is running inside. Laughter, splashing and sounds I'd rather not categorize make my arms break out in goosebumps.

Shut up, Jimmy, I can't think when you do that. I'm going to look.

And now I'm backing out.

It's okay, Jimmy. They're only splashing around in the bathtub. I'm going to turn off the com for a minute. I'll bring them out, one at a time, real soon. No -- they don't have bathing suits, but underwear is pretty much the same thing, right? Stay cool.

Okay. I've turned off the com. The last thing I need at this point is a crazed Jimmy rushing up here. The thing is, I have to figure out how to extract a totally naked Yves and Langly from the throne room.

Arrrghh. Give me the alternative choice of doing a rectal palpation on a whole herd of moo-cows, sans glove, and I'd take it right now -- if only someone else would accept responsibility for getting Yves off Langly's lap. They're wrapped up like a couple of eels, and I'm not sure which of them has their tongue farthest down the other's throat. I'm trying not to pay any attention to the various parts of Yves that she may kill me later for inadvertently ogling. Hell! I have no choice here.

And there's most of my dilemma solved. Thank you, Langly, for hiding her breasts with your face.

I've grabbed one of Langly's tees out of the mess on the floor, and one of the big white towels from the vanity cupboard. I'm definitely going for Yves first, because she's on top. If I can grab her with the towel, then yank the tee over her head . . .

 _Merde! Get the hell out of here, Francois! You didn't even bring the wine! You're fired!_

Don't call me Francois. I'm very sorry, madam. I have a message for you --

 _Madam? You dare to say this?!_

Oh crap, she's off her Langly perch, and she looks furious, like she plans to do some physical damage. I think the sex stuff going on here is above and beyond the obvious. I try to watch her out of the corner of my eye, without any direct staring, which considering how great she looks wearing nothing but bubbles is a major victory for moi.

Sorry! My apologies, but your new client is waiting. You asked me to tell you when she arrived.

 _New client, Stardust? Do we have a new client?_

 _I know of no new client, sweet Moonlight._

Of course you do. That -- duchess. Gran Fenwick, I think. She's got a 52 triple-D bust, and a hunchback . . . and she's got diamond mines and shit . . .

 _Don't stand there like a dolt, hand me that towel. I must get dressed. You don't need to disturb yourself, Moonlight. I will return after I speak with her._

This may work, after all. Wet toffee and cream skin is disappearing under tuxedo pants and one of those crisp shirts. She's blotting her hair with the towel, and smoothing it back.

 _You left her in the great room, Francois?_

Great room? Ah, she's waiting in her limousine, mada . . . mon . . . oh merde.

 _Don't just stand there, Francois. We'll need coffee and a plate of biscuits._

I am so not going near that kitchen again. I'm following Yves at a discreet distance, down the stairs, through the living room, out the front door. Jimmy -- are you there? We're coming toward the van.

 **CLICK**

 **SHADET HOUSE CASE: AUDIO JOURNAL OF MELVIN FROHIKE, TAPE 4**

It's Sunday, 10:30 a.m.

I'm going to wrap this up quick, then hide these tapes. I listened to them, straight through, last night before I went to bed. I remember all of it, but some of it seems distant, like it happened a long time ago.

Byers, Langly and Yves may be luckier than me. They've been sleeping since we brought them back to the warehouse, Saturday morning. Byers woke briefly last night, spoke a few coherent sentences, then zeed out again. He may out-sleep his hangover, not a bad thing.

Jimmy has been alternately pacing past the couch where Yves is sleeping, and bugging me to repeat my version of what happened. I keep giving the sanitized version, but it doesn't satisfy him. He saw Yves and Langly necking up on that wretched bed, and won't let go of it. I've told him the kindest thing he can do -- for everyone's sake -- is just pretend it never happened.

Stardust was not happy to find the busty client was a crazy man with a roll of duct tape. When Jimmy wouldn't let her go back into the house, she took a swing at him. He's got a nice purple crescent under one eye today. Langly posed no great difficulty. He was already out of the tub, wearing an ermine-edged dressing gown, doing his nails. Unfortunately this image isn't the one that's still tattooed on my eyelids. I told him that Stardust needed him to entertain a client, and he walked right out of the house into our web. I put him in Jimmy's car, buckled him in, then fled the vicinity of Shadet House, one eye on my mirror to make sure that Jimmy was following in the van.

I talked to Giselle Shadet-Melton last night, and the interview was not a friendly one. All our stuff is still there, the cameras, our clothing, Langly's laptop, Yves' car. I asked her to have the Browns return everything, and Mrs. S&M went into a huff. When she calmed down, she promised to have our belongings returned, and also mentioned something about finding her father's journal recently. I promised her we'd talk more later today, so I'm going to have to come up with something to tell her. After all we've been through, I _want_ that $10,000. I _want_ our stuff. But I'm not going back out to Shadet House to get it.

And we are never, never again messing with a project like this, for all the money in the world.

 **CLICK**


	4. Chapter 4

**RESIDENCE OF GISELLE SHADET-MELTON, SUNDAY - 7:30 P.M.**

The house grounds were spacious and groomed, and someone had obviously dumped money into above-average security, Frohike thought, although nothing he saw at the gate, and on his way in led him to believe it would be too difficult for anyone but a street hoodlum to get inside.

He didn't have to knock at the front door. It was opened before he got there by a man wearing a penguin suit.

"This way, please. Mrs. Shadet-Melton is expecting you."

A British butler. Frohike was relieved he wasn't French. He followed the stick-straight figure down a dark hallway ornamented with oak mouldings and lots of portraits.

"In here, sir."

Mrs. Shadet-Melton was as spacious and well-groomed as the grounds. Frohike considered offering his hand, but decided against it when she got out of her wing-back seat near the fireplace and stood, staring down at him with the expression of a woman whose Sharpei has just taken a dump on the hand-loomed carpet.

"You're Mr. Frohike?"

"Yeah." She looked like her uncle Simon, Frohike thought uneasily. Did all the Shadets carry such a strong family resemblance? Giselle Shadet-Melton appeared to be a hair under six feet, and had cruised past 250 pounds. She had the same black hair, only lightly silvered, the same olive skin, the same heavy jaw and dark eyes that Frohike had seen in Simon's portrait.

"Well, sit down." She waved a hand at the couch. "You appear to be all right. How are your associates?"

"Still sleeping." Frohike sat and looked around the room. There was no lack of knickknacks in this place. Books, statuary, lamps, plants, more portraits, and leather chairs all crammed up against each other. "What's the word on the Professor?"

"Professor Galigo was moved to a private clinic on Friday. He is talking again." Giselle still stared at him. "He doesn't remember trying to injure himself."

"I'd like to know what you didn't tell him about the house. What you didn't tell Yves." Frohike saw her eyebrow rise, her lip curl.

"I don't know what you mean."

Like hell, she didn't. "I plan on leaving here with a check. Do you know what happened to all of Simon and Simeone's personal stuff?"

She moved, uncomfortable with the question. "Mother always said that Father burned their clothing and designs, and sold the jewelry."

"What kind of relationship did your father have with his brother?" Frohike asked.

"They were rivals, in work and love." Giselle shrugged. "Father courted Simeone before Simon did. Later, Simon was far more financially successful than father, and I believe father was embarrassed by some of Simon's clientele. Especially at the end."

"Are you talking about the circus freaks?" Frohike saw her work the eyebrow again.

"Simeone had -- connections, in France, and later in New York."

"Guys who liked to dress up in women's clothes and hang around in bars?" Frohike asked. The last facts were falling into place. It all made sense in a fun-house mirror sort of way.

"Don't be flippant about it." Giselle glared at him. "Transvestites. Why do you ask about their belongings?"

"How much time have you spent in the house?"

"Minutes. And I was anxious the entire time." The words sounded fierce and hard. She leaned toward him, her fingers clenching into fists. "Father never went out there. I only saw pictures of Shadet House until after his death. I have copies of the magazine articles. I used to read them over and over again. Father told me what happened to Mr. Orthway, and warned me before he died to stay away from it. But I want that house, Mr. Frohike. Can you explain what happens to everyone who spends time there?"

"No -- not explain. You said on the phone that you'd found your father's journal." It was the real reason Frohike had decided to come and collect in person. "Have you read it?"

She shook her head. "I only leafed through it. It seemed wrong for me -- his daughter -- to read his most intimate thoughts."

"Can I borrow it?" She was going to refuse, she wanted to refuse. Frohike could see it in her face right up to the moment when she let go, and shook her head.

"Yes. I'd like to have it back, though."

"No problem." Frohike stood. "Simon and Simeone were extraordinary individuals, weren't they?"

"I believe they were." Giselle Shadet-Melton stood too, towering over him. She reached for a small black book on the coffee table next to her chair, and held it out. "They were creative, strong, loving people. Even father described them that way. How can I make that house my own, Mr. Frohike? I have to find a way."

"If I were you, I'd arrange for a member of the local police department to take a wrecking crew out there, early in the morning, and take the bed apart."

"The bed?" Giselle frowned. "I don't understand."

"It's just a thought. All their clothing and jewelry are still out there. Take a look at the blueprints. Third panel from the main door, to your right in the bedroom, will get you into the closet," Frohike said.

"Jewelry? Simeone's jewelry is still out there?" She looked ecstatic for a moment, then the expression faded. "What do you suspect?"

"I suspect you'll never be able to live in the house," Frohike said, "even if you lay uneasy spirits to rest. I'll call in about five years and see how you're doing." He turned and walked to the door. "You've got our address. Send the check along. We earned the money."

 

 **LGHQ, THURSDAY - 3:30 P.M.**

Yves stood under the camera near their front door, wearing leather and sunglasses. Her face and voice were composed and neutral when he let her in.

"I understand we've been paid," Yves said. She walked past Frohike quickly, with all her usual swagger.

"Everyone's in the kitchen." Frohike followed her up the stairs. He hadn't wanted to have this conversation in the kitchen, but the workroom was crowded.

Byers stood when he saw her, and pulled out a chair. "How are you feeling?"

Yves arched a brow at him. "I am well. And you?"

"We're all just peachy," Frohike interrupted. This was going to be gruesome enough without small talk.

Langly stared at a wall, Jimmy stared at Yves, and Byers' hands were clenched under the shelter of the table top. It was impossible to tell what Yves was staring at. She hadn't removed her sunglasses.

"Mrs. S&M called late last night. There isn't any easy way to say this. They found the bodies of Simon and Simeone Shadet mummified in some kind of dessicant in the base of the bed."

"Bodies?" Langly looked whiter than he normally did. "I feel sick."

"Frohike?" Jimmy looked away from Yves.

They were all looking at him, mouths hanging open. Yves removed her sunglasses.

"I thought their bodies were incinerated in a car crash," she said, quietly.

"That was the story. Forensic evidence indicates they were both shot in the back," Frohike said.

"How? When?" Byers shook his head. "How?"

"I really wanted that $10,000," Frohike said, looking around at them. "And I was -- am -- pissed off at being manipulated so easily. I did some more research during the two days you guys spent sleeping."

"And found out what?" Byers demanded.

"I'll tell you, in a minute." Frohike took a deep breath. They all needed to lay ghosts to rest here, and once again he was in charge of operations. "How much of our experience at Shadet House do you remember, Byers?"

Byers grimaced, and looked down at the table. "I can remember trying to fix the borrowed equipment, and that we did a lot of walking around. I have a really clear memory of what the river looks like underneath the living room floor -- but that's it. I've tried, and it's a blur."

Frohike nodded. "Langly?"

"Nothing. I don't remember nothing," Langly growled. "I know what's on the fucking tape, but I don't remember doing it. I was working on my laptop that first night, and I think I fell asleep on the bed. That's the last thing I remember."

"It wasn't you, Langly," Frohike said. "Yves?"

"My memory is similar to Langly's. He was working, and I couldn't keep my eyes open."

Her voice was measured, controlled. Frohike wondered what she was thinking. They'd watched the surveillance tapes together on Tuesday, when everyone had regained some measure of alertness. Langly had fled the room, but Yves had watched without emotion. Frohike wasn't sure which reaction he preferred.

"Your experiences are similar to Professor Galigo and his group of grad students, and to Fleming and Mathilda Orthway's, back in the 50s," Frohike said. "I should have seen the similarities sooner, but I was a victim myself."

"What did you figure out?" Byers asked. "Some kind of possession?"

This was going to be tricky. They were all watching him, Byers and Jimmy with curiosity and some anxiety; Langly with high anxiety and, from the swallowing he was doing, plenty of active stomach acid. Yves' face was politely curious.

Frohike sighed. "I'm not a parapsychologist," he said slowly, "but look at what happened to each person who spent more than 24-hours in Shadet House. Professor Galigo is the only one who suffered physical harm. We'll come back to him.

"One grad student just went to sleep. Byers was headed that direction. A little too much beer, some mindless R&R watching the river run, then lots of sleep. The kind of behavior you might see in someone recovering from a traumatic experience, or prolonged stress.

"The other grad students -- and the Orthways: one fancies herself a stripper, three see themselves as celebrities or entertainers."

"Martha Stewart, and Esther Williams," Byers said.

"Yes, and in Mathilda Orthway's case newspaper clippings of the time indicate she did a mean Frank Sinatra impression at the Derby and Spats," Frohike said. "Langly and Yves got a slightly different treatment from the house. More . . . personal. It had to be a fluke. The two of them have physical similarities to the Shadets. What they experienced was more in the way of possession than influence." Frohike saw Yves nod. Good, she could accept that part of it. "Byers told us going in that the whole area had been considered sacred land, where native people would come for meditation and dream questing. Let's say that a residue of that power stuck around, after the house was built. I think Simon and Simeone felt right at home with the land. They were all about actively pursuing a vision."

"Because they were artists? Designers?" Jimmy asked.

"That was part of it." Frohike gestured at the leather book he'd placed in the center of the table. "Franklin Shadet's journal is mostly about Simon and Simeon. If anyone wants to read it before I send it back to Giselle, feel free. It explains a lot, and what he doesn't come right out and say . . ."

"Just tell us." Yves tapped her glasses against her palm twice, looked at them then put them down on the table. "You're not usually so delicate."

Frohike exhaled loudly. "Right. Simon and Franklin fought for years before Franklin finally lost it and plugged them both. He wanted to marry Simeone. Simon eloped with her. This came as quite a shock to Franklin, one I don't think he ever recovered from.

"After the marriage, Franklin was handling the details for contracting out sewing work for his own interior design business and some of the Shadets' designs -- mostly labor intensive embroidery and beadwork. Simon found out that Franklin had arranged with the State of New York for the inmates at the New York Women's Correctional Facility to stitch his clothing. He flew mad and told Franklin they'd never do business together again. Simon felt if his customers knew their lingerie had been stitched by criminals, a certain devaluation in image would occur." Frohike paused, looked around at each pair of eyes. "But what drove Franklin over the edge was the fact that Simon and Simeone had gotten involved with a new crowd of clients, and had decided to let the world in on something the Shadets had kept quiet since their firstborn had entered the work force."

"Simon. Simon was a girl." Jimmy sat back in his chair and whistled. "And Franklin's sweetie turned out to be a lesbian."

"Half right, Jimmy." Frohike shrugged. "Simon Shadet was born Simone Shadet. Franklin says his sister wanted to be a boy nearly from the moment she could talk. She made her parents change her name when she was in her early teens, and made her father train her as a tailor. Franklin writes a good deal about the strength of Simone's . . . Simon's character. He says Simon made herself exactly what she thought God had intended her to be. Franklin also writes that as difficult as he found it to understand why Simon was the way she was, it was infinitely more difficult to understand how both his sister and he could have fallen in love with this other person, christened at birth -- Simon Pierre Vaillancourt."

"Simon was a girl, and Simon was a boy?" Jimmy shook his head. "They were perfect for each other."

"Yes. They were," Yves said softly. "Franklin must have had a hard time when he realized he'd fallen in love with a man."

"And he feared how society would view him when Simon and Simeone came out of their designer closet," Frohike added. "He was waiting at Shadet House after that party. Franklin writes that he used every reasoning he could think of, but the couple refused to listen to him. He shot them as they turned their backs on him, standing on the glass floor over the river."

"But they found remains in the burned out car," Byers said. "Whose?"

"The French caretaker and his wife," Frohike said. The little stone cottage and fragrant herb garden swam to the top of his thoughts for a moment, then submerged. "Franklin went to them for help in hiding the bodies, then he coshed them, put them into Simon's car and drove it to the gully."

"That's why he didn't let anyone go out there during his lifetime," Jimmy said.

"Yeah. Guilt and fear. Turns out he had good reason for both." Would they be able to deal with it, and let it go, Frohike wondered. Langly still looked upset. Yves still looked distantly interested.

"What I don't understand is how you were only slightly affected by Shadet House, Frohike," Byers said. "Everyone else lost all sense of personal identity."

"That's not quite true." Jimmy tapped his finger against the side of his head. He was wearing his explain-the-play expression.

"Oh great, the idiot-savant has another insight," Langly rasped. "I don't want to --"

He stopped, mid-sentence. Frohike saw Yves' hand touching Langly's arm.

"It's not so bad, Langly. Put it in context, accept it, and move on," Yves said softly. "It's what I'm doing."

Jimmy nodded. "The real power of the house is in the way it activates ambitions and vanities people usually try and hide away, or ignore. Simon and Simon had Yves and Langly -- they were playing out their story. I'm guessing Mr. Orthway wanted to be a famous swimmer and his wife wanted to be a night club star. Those grad students must have had secret exhibitionist fantasies, too. Byers is easy -- he needs to wear civvies once in a while, maybe go to a ball game with the guys. I've been trying to figure out the Professor."

"Professor Galigo would have approved of Simeone," Yves said, taking her hand off Langly's arm. "I believe he may have considered gender reassignment when he was younger."

Jimmy made a face. "Some things really should not be tried at home. If the Professor had followed his heart when he was young, he wouldn't have ended up harming himself."

"So being at the house made him face a conflict of sexual identity, and he tried to resolve it with a quick snip? I might be able to buy that," Frohike said. Hiding shit away can have terrible results, he thought. There was a lesson here, for all of them. A good thing Scully hadn't been on this field trip. Frohike couldn't help wondering what Francois' wife had looked like.

"And Frohike?" Byers prompted. "He stayed in character most of the time. He may have been fussing about in the kitchen a little more. Was he possessed by the French butler, then?"

"I think the house might have thrown little bits of the French guy at Frohike, since they fit right into his normal identity. The thing about Frohike is, he's already everything he ever wanted to be." Jimmy smiled at him. "He's got no buried vanities or ambitions. They're all right out on the surface."

"Polished daily," Langly said, cracking a nearly normal grin.

 

No permanent damage done, Frohike thought as he walked Yves to the door, no thanks to Shadet House.

Yves lingered after he turned the locks. She looked at him as if he were a stranger, and they'd just met. "Frohike -- I've heard from the people who took those girls out of the sweatshop. They're doing well. Most of them will be able to stay in the states."

"That's good." _Come on girl, you can talk to me._ Frohike saw her eyes shutter down as she turned toward the door. "Did you mean what you said to Langly? You're going to be okay with what happened?"

"Eventually." Yves' face relaxed into a younger, softer expression. "Do you think it was all Simon Shadet, or do you think I might want to ?"

"Be a man? Screw guys dressed up as women?" Frohike snorted. "If the answer to any of that is yes, enjoy, but keep it to yourself. Personally, I think you've been neglecting something much more basic to life. Let yourself be a woman whose name isn't Yves Adele Harlow."

The suggestion dropped behind her eyes like a stone into a clear, rushing river. She smiled, the facade back in place. "You are the most grounded man I know, Melvin Frohike." She leaned toward him, quickly, and dropped a kiss on each side of his mouth. "Bon soir, Francois."

Yves slipped out the door with a flourish of hips, a swing of hair, and a mocking backward smile as she replaced her sunglasses.

Frohike stood in the doorway and watched her walk away.

"Don't call me Francois!" he yelled after her.


End file.
